CHERRY-RIPE

There is a Garden in her face

Where Roses and white Lillies grow;

A heav'nly paradice is that place,

Wherein all pleasant fruits doe flow.

There Cherries grow, which none may buy,

Till Cherry Ripe themselves doe cry.

Those Cherries fayrely doe enclose

Of Orient Pearle a double row,

Which when her lovely laughter showes,

They look like Rose-buds filled with snow.

Yet them nor Peere nor Prince can buy,

Till Cherry Ripe themselves doe cry.

Her Eyes like Angels watch them still;

Her Browes like bended bowes doe stand,

Threat'ning with piercing frownes to kill

All that approach with eye or hand

These sacred Cherries to come nigh,

Till Cherry Ripe themselves doe cry.

Thomas Campion